


New Addition

by BalefireFlatlands



Series: The Balefire [16]
Category: Mad Max (Video Game 2015)
Genre: M/M, OC - Crankshaft, OC - Soup
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-03
Updated: 2018-04-03
Packaged: 2019-09-19 20:49:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17008962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BalefireFlatlands/pseuds/BalefireFlatlands
Summary: Scab is good at making friends.





	New Addition

“You sure there’s something out this way?”

In the passenger seat, Scab pulled his head in from where he’d been half hanging out the window as the car sped through the sand. “You doubting me Crankshaft?” His face contorted into a sneer, skin pale from never seeing the sun, the stripes that he’d painted down his lips and up from his eyes stood out in stark contrast.

He was shirtless, wearing only a pair of cargo pants cinched to his waist by several belts, the only thing keeping them on his gaunt lower half. His hands were bandaged, strips of fabric and leather securing squares of tire tread over his palms, protection from tearing them up as he pulled himself along. Various brands and scars adorned his torso, skin taut over thick muscles causing them to be even more prominent: a wrench, a flaming skull, a lighthouse down his forearm. Those coupled with the healed injuries of previous battles made him look like the war torn veteran he was, but it was nothing compared to the mess of a broken body he was hiding under his pants.

“Yeah I’m doubting you. Because we’ve been driving forever and I don’t see shit.”

“Cuz you’re a piss addled sack of muck.“ Scab snorted, looking towards the horizon. "Over there. See the tower?”

The Wastelander beside him squinted, turning the car where he was directed. "No.” Crankshaft was significantly less bulky, almost being swallowed by the much patched leather jacket he was wearing. He had his hair tied back under a fabric cowl, a chunk of it over his mouth so he didn’t breathe in the sand that was circling around from driving a car that had no window glass.

“You wouldn’t survive for ten seconds as a War Boy.”

“Best news I’ve heard in days.”

Scab punched him in the shoulder, hard enough to send the car skidding to the side as Crankshaft over corrected on the wheel.

“The sniper’s shine can’t be seen since he’s not at his post. We could take it if he was, there’s few fighters in this camp. Don’t even think they they have perimeter defenses.” Well Scab hoped they didn’t, since there were only two of them versus an entire camp. Granted there might be six War Boys in this camp on a good day, but Scab didn’t want to chance damaging the car.

Living in the Lighthouse wasn’t like Gastown. If someone shot out their tires Jeet would have to go out of his way to trade with another stronghold for the supplies needed for repairs. Scab was used to the almost infinite supplies that the Citadel bestowed onto Gastown, he could count on having nearly any resource he needed to fix something up.

It had taken Scab a very long time to come to terms with the fact that Jeet didn’t run his stronghold like an Imperator should. Jeet was stingy with resources, for good reason, everything they owned had been fought and bleed for. It made for a completely different relationship between him and the residents of his stronghold than an Imperator with his camp. He didn’t wage war, he didn’t take risks, he almost never instigated fights, and he was overly cautious when venturing out to trade.

And he’d been especially reluctant to let Scab go on this little expedition. Two people going to a camp that was deserted, sounded fine in theory. But Jeet could imagine infinite scenarios where this went wrong. For one he had no idea what sort of routines War Boys kept, and why they would leave a camp defenseless in the first place. Though that was a minor concern when put against the fact that Scab couldn’t do much fighting anymore. If they did encounter anyone it would be Crankshaft who’d take the brunt of the attack. He could give Scab a gun, but the War Boy was such a poor shot that it would be a miracle if he didn’t accidentally shoot Crankshaft in the back. He’d been a driver, not a lancer, aim was not his priority.

“Explain to me again why no one is here?” Crankshaft parked far from the front gate, hesitantly getting out of the car and looking around, expecting to be attacked.

Scab fell out of the seat into the dirt, scrabbling around to get himself situated up on his palms. “Because Gastown just got their big shipment of greenstuff. And you’d be an idiot to send one person to get it and not expect them to eat it all before they get back. Everyone goes to fight for their share.”

He sighed wistfully. Fresh food was something he sorely missed. Sure it was the Citadel’s leftovers and most of it was on the verge of rotting. But the alternative was eating maggots, lizards, and canned food that had lost all flavor.

There was a chainlink fence topped with razor wire encircling the camp, and some nasty looking caltrops hidden in the dirt of the entrance just waiting to demolish the tires of any cars that got too close. Snipping the chain holding the fence open Crankshaft entered cautiously. “We gonna set off alarms?”

“Who cares. No one around to hear them. They would have attacked us already if anyone was left.” Scab crawled over to a rack of tools, starting to drag things down and pile them up for Crankshaft to carry back to the car.

Still on edge, Crankshaft started investigating. It was a very small camp; space for no more than three cars on one side with a lean-to awning on the other and some mattresses below, obviously the War Boys living quarters. There were two corrugated metal shacks on the edge of the space. The stench of one of them marked it as the outhouse, and the other was surrounded by dark puddled bloodstains and he gave it a wide berth. The last thing he wanted to see was a shed full of severed heads.

Deciding that the place was indeed empty Crankshaft knelt down in front of a metal chest, flipping it open to rummage through. But as soon as the lid was popped there was a loud clank, the sound of grinding gears and a horrific high pitched howl.

Scab whipped around, hand going to the knife on his belt, “Ferals! When did they get ferals?”

“Get what? What is that sound?” Crankshaft backed away from the chest, unable to identify where the gibbering noises were coming from. They’d multiplied, echoing in an unsettling way and growing louder in volume with each passing moment.

The siding of the second structure fell to the ground with a clang and three elongated, spike-encrusted creatures sprung out of cages and dashed towards the interlopers. Their gait was off-kilter, strange and staggering, and when one of them got close to Crankshaft it spun around in a circle and then leapt at him, aiming to impale the spikes on his chest into the Wastelander’s torso. They never stopped making that chattering, screechy whine, and it added to the otherworldly chaos of being attacked by something that didn’t seem real.

Crankshaft barely processed that the things were human, or were supposed to be human anyway, before he’d pulled his gun and shot one of them mid-leap. The feral crashed to the ground, a heap of skeletal limbs bent in unnatural angles, and leather harnesses that seemed to be tying the malformed body together, as if undoing the straps would cause the creature to fall apart into several pieces.

The two remaining ferals split up, one heading for Scab who was an easy target on the ground, and the other backing up before darting forward to hurl his body at Crankshaft. Several bullets tore through the feral’s flesh, but the twisted animal only knew pain, existed in a constant state of torment, so a few more sharp instances of agony were nothing and he managed to jab some of his spikey accessories into Crankshaft as he twisted and jumped and threw himself around - using his entire body as a projectile weapon.

Scab had his knife drawn, tensed and ready. Ferals were the most dangerous when they were able to knock people down to the ground, and he was already there, quick meat to be slaughtered. The feral dove at him, using the spikes of his chestplate to try and ram Scab into the dust. Quickly Scab twisted out of the way; well for the most part. His legs took the brunt of the attack and the feral seized the opportunity to sink his teeth into Scab’s ankle.

Unable to feel the bite, Scab reached out with his off-hand to grab the handle sticking out of the ferals back, wrenching him off and harshly dragging him to the side. Caught by surprise at having his attack utterly fail, the feral yelped and scrabbled at the ground.

“No! Stop it. Down. Stay. Whatever the command is to not attack.” Scab shifted awkwardly onto his shoulder so he could hold the knife up menacingly, even though he knew that it wasn’t much of a threat. Some feral handlers trained their packs by having them impale themselves willingly. “Back off? Heel? What commands do you know you stupid mongrel? Sit?”

The feral had been ferociously trying to break the hold on his harness, clawing at Scab and the air as he thrashed. But the yelling of commands had caused him to tilt his head curiously, and finally stop making the horrible noises that ferals were famous for. He squatted in the dust, eyes studying Scab’s face. Obviously a War Boy, but not his handler. Still, commands were commands and he sat there obediently as Scab re-situated himself without ever breaking his hold on that leather handle.

“Good.” Scab used the feral’s back to push himself up so he could look over at where Crankshaft was kneeling next to some corpses. The feral didn’t move, letting Scab use him as a balancing point, blinking in confusion at what was happening. “Do you – whoa whoa! Wait! Stop!”

Scab faceplanted into the dirt as the feral turned and started to head towards Crankshaft. With Scab hanging off the handle attached to his harness, he wasn’t moving quickly but he was intent on finishing what the other ferals had started.

“Stop you idiotic mutt!”

Darting up from where he was looting the two dead bodies, Crankshaft couldn’t help but chuckle at the sight of a tiny feral slowly coming towards him with a loudmouth War Boy attached to his harness and dragging in the dust. Scab sputtered and yelled, trying a whole slew of commands to no avail, spitting up sand and using his other hand to try and get the feral to stop crawling towards the Wastelander.

Unfortunately Scab didn’t know many commands, in fact he only knew one or two. Gastown didn’t have ferals, and his only real exposure to them was one feral handler who had been intent on getting into his pants and showing off what his pack could do. Scab remembered far more about the subsequent rutting session then he did about the ferals beforehand.

The little feral was emaciated and dehydrated, and it was taking absolutely all his strength to be able to crawl forward while dragging the dead weight of Scab behind him. By the time he actually got to Crankshaft he was utterly exhausted, reaching out to try and bash his spiked gauntlet into Crankshaft’s shoe before collapsing.

“Well done.” Unperturbed, Crankshaft knocked his hand away, protected by steel toed boots. “You’re dragging something from your undercarriage there.”

“Shut the hell up.” Scab coughed up a muddy mess, face and chest dirty and covered in dust. Realizing that the feral was basically hyperventilating, Scab finally let go of the handle, propping himself up to look at the damage done to his leg. “Little runt tried to eat me.”

“What even is this thing?” Squatting down, Crankshaft picked the feral up by the harness, amused as he flailed weakly.

“Feral. Failed War Boy.”

The feral was not pleased with that assessment, making a strangled snarling noise, unable to speak with the leather bit in his mouth. He lashed out at Scab, missing by a mile as he dangled midair in Crankshaft’s grip.

“Well you are.”

More garbled growls.

“If you were any good you would have been a War Pup, not a feral. They don’t put pups in cages.”

“What do you mean a pup? He’s not a little kid.” Crankshaft abruptly dropped the feral, snickering as he splatted into the ground with limbs going everywhere.

“Pups aren’t good enough to be War Boys, it doesn’t have to do with age. He’s not good enough to be a Pup, so they put him in a cage and turned him into a feral.”

Hearing the words ‘in cage’ the feral got to his hands and knees, making the slow trek back to his pen, now fully exposed to the sun with the metal siding on the ground. Both Scab and Crankshaft turned to watch, stunned into silence for a while as the feral crawled halfway in and collapsed with his feet sticking out the front.

“What’s he doing?”

“Going back to his cage. He thinks I told him to.”

“Will he listen to you because you’re a War Boy?”

Scab shrugged, trying unsuccessfully to get more dirt off himself. “I don’t know enough commands to make him do much. And he won’t understand many words.”

“What do you mean he don’t understand words? He’s full grown.”

“Not allowed to talk to ferals. It messes with their training.”

“You guys are real fucked up, you know that?”

“That’s why we own the world and you Wastelanders get raided out the ass.” Scab snarled back, forgetting for the moment that he wasn’t a War Boy anymore.

“Well aren’t you high and mighty for someone who almost got eaten by a scrawny thing held together by belts.”

Scab looked over at the feral who was stretched out, head in the cage with the rest of his body laying on the ground outside of it. “What should we do with him?”

“Guess we could eat him.”

“You wanna eat him? He’s pretty gross.”

Crankshaft hesitated, the thought of biting into the feral making him gag a little. “Lets load up the car. We’ll worry about him later.”

They went back to salvaging, piling everything in the middle of the camp and then sorting out what would actually fit in the car. Crankshaft knelt down to strip the two dead ferals of their clothing, disgusted to find that in some places their skin had grown over the harnesses and straps so he couldn’t get it off. He tied the bodies to the roof of the car, good food for Jeet’s maggot farm at the base of the lighthouse.

When he returned he found that the remaining live feral had come out of his cage and was rooting through the small pile of spikey things that had been discarded from the corpses. The feral hissed, and clutched the items to his chest possessively.

“You can have that shit. We don’t need spiked collars.”

The malformed creature was deadly dangerous, but it was easy to forget that as they watched him try and fail to attach chestplates to his head and his legs. He flopped onto his back, using his feet to try and get the belts tightened and in place.

Scab sighed, gesturing to the feral. “Come here stupid. That’s not how those go on.” Obediently trundling over, the feral sat there, letting Scab adjust the shin guards over his legs. “You kick me with this and I’m leaving your guts out for the Buzzards.”

“I think he likes you.”

“Get bent.” Scab finished placing the leg guards, tightening all the other straps as well to keep them from slipping. “There. All spikey and ready to bring death to your enemies.”

The feral nodded eagerly, backing off and spinning in a circle happily while down on all fours. He stood up for the first time, stretching to his full height in order to look down at himself and try to see all his new accessories. It didn’t last long and he went back to hunching over and standing with his knees bent.

“Make yourself useful, take all this over to the car.” Scab gestured to the tools and other goodies in front of him. Seeing the feral’s confused face he remembered what he was talking to and gestured to a nearby muffler. “Take. Put in car.” He pointed to the car, unsure if 'put in’ was a phrase that the feral would know.

Understanding some of that, the feral picked up the muffler, cradling the oversize item to his chest and staggering towards the entrance of the camp. He dropped it on the ground nearby, trotting back to grab another one and do the same.

“Close enough.” Scab turned back to the pile and dug out the best pieces to take back to his Imperator.

“You’re gonna let that thing wander around with a million knives strapped to it?”

“Do you wanna carry all this? Because I sure don’t.” Not that Scab really could, so having the feral do it seemed like a viable option.

“And then we just leave him here?”

“Maybe we should bring him back. For the maggot pile.”

“Then we should kill him.”

“I guess.” Scab watched the little feral dutifully pacing back and forth with his arms full.

“What, you wanna keep it?”

“No!” Said too quickly and too forcefully to be true. “We’ll let the Imperator decide what to do with him.”

Oh the feral understood that word, spinning around to look at Scab wide-eyed. He said something thoroughly unintelligible, scampering back to Scab to sit in front of him.

“Wanna go see the Imperator? Gonna obey? Not attack anyone?”

He nodded so vigorously the little d-hooks all over his harness clinked together. Suddenly he fell over, squirming onto his back and holding his hands palms up.

Scab smiled widely, crawling over him and trying to avoid as many of the spikes as he could. “Atta boy.” He patted the feral’s side, “Good submissive thing.”

“You guys are so fucking weird.”

“Sod off Crankshaft. At least someone respects me being the Imperator’s champion.” Scab backed off, letting the feral up. “Have you ever been in a car before?”

The feral shook his head going over to the car and stroking it appreciatively.

Crankshaft rolled his eyes, starting to pack their loot. “Jeet is gonna kill you, Scab.”

“No he ain’t.” But Scab didn’t know that, looking elsewhere and trying to pretend Crankshaft didn’t exist.

“Dibs on the car.”

“You keep your filthy wastelander hands off my car.”

—

Jeet stomped down the stairs, going to meet the car that had just pulled in. Even from his vantage point upstairs he could tell that it was stuffed to the brim with loot, and had bodies tied to the roof. Was Scab taking trophies now? He didn’t want corpses smelling up his lighthouse.

Scab practically fell out of the car, twisting himself around in order to crawl to the rear door. Crankshaft wordlessly slipped to the back, starting to unload stuff into a pile. But his movements were furtive, looking around as if he expected to be shanked.

The reason for that became clear when Scab pounded on the rear door and a mangled-up creature clamored out of the window to drop to the ground below. Scab grabbed onto a handle sticking out of its back, awkwardly holding himself up on one arm.

“Remember, no attacking.”

The feral nodded and tried to say something, the bit garbling it and causing him to drool onto the floor. 

“What'n the hell is that?”

Scab winced, looking up at Jeet. “Imperator.” He hesitated, looking at the ground for inspiration. “He’s a feral. To guard the lighthouse.” Sure, that sounded plausible.

Behind him Crankshaft pulled the bodies off the roof of the car and slipped away, “I’ll just go put these in the maggot farm then.”

Huffing, Scab glared at his retreating back as Crankshaft abandoned him to deal with the full wrath of Jeet on his own. Traitor.

“It’s a what?” Jeet narrowed his eyes, coming closer to the creature. The first unsettling thing he noticed was the harness that Scab was holding onto. It encased the feral’s ribcage and went over his shoulders, cinched so tight there were places that his skin had grown over it. He had some sort of metal contraption on his face with a bit in his mouth so he couldn’t close it all the way. Not only that but there seemed to be straps going directly into his eyes.

As he got closer the thing whimpered, backing up, then bringing his palms together over his head in the V8 symbol. However with the way he was crouched he couldn’t support himself and fell face first into the concrete floor, didn’t even try to catch himself.

“He needs some more training.” Scab released the handle, watching him as he rolled around before getting back up and sitting at attention.

“Training?” Jeet rolled his head back to look at the ceiling for a few seconds so he didn’t snap at them. “Nevermind I don’t wanna know. This thing a War Boy?”

The Feral backed up against the tire of the car as Jeet squatted down to look at him, pulling on the harness to turn his head to the side.

“No.” Scab watched with trepidation as Jeet seemed to consider killing the feral instead of keeping him.

“You gonna attack me if I take this thing off you?” Jeet tugged on the metal collar around his neck.

The feral looked at Scab in confusion, then back up at his new Imperator.

“He doesn’t understand that many words.” Scab nudged the feral. “Don’t attack. Yes?”

The feral nodded, moving from a squatting position to sitting cross-legged on the floor.

“He doesn’t understand words? What am I supposed to do with someone who don’t even know what I’m tellin’ 'em?”

“More training! He’ll get better. He listens good, he just doesn’t know much. He knows sit and menace and attack.”

Upon hearing the commands, the feral comically tried to obey all of them at once, culminating in him sitting, snarling, and then attacking and biting the tire of the car. The residents of the lighthouse could only stare.

“A lot more training.” Scab reached out and pulled him off the car, forcing him back down onto the ground.

Jeet sighed in exasperation. “Alright soup for brains. Don’t move.” Reaching out he worked the buckles of the collar, slowly pulling it off his face. “This ain’t even locked, you could have taken it off yourself.”

“They’d kill him if he did. He’s probably never had it off before.”

Peeling the straps from the feral’s skin caused him to wince as he started to bleed. Once the bit was worked out he shook his head vigorously coughing up blood and pus and drool, pawing at his lips and trying to get the taste out.

“You have a name?”

Still poking his fingers into his mouth, the feral tilted his head, not understanding.

“He’s a feral. They don’t get names.”

“So lemme get this straight. You went on a raid and came back with a scrawny runt who’s dumb as rocks, who don’t got a name, don’t understand words, and only knows how to attack tires?”

“He’d attack other things if you told him to. That’s what the spikes are for.”

The feral glanced between the two of them realizing they were arguing about him. Thinking that the Imperator was displeased, he flopped over onto his back, whimpering and exposing his stomach, trying to look as non-threatening as possible.

“What’s he doing?”

Scab managed a weak smile, “Submitting to his Imperator.”

“And what am I supposed to do about that?” Jeet frowned, staring down at this horrifically abused specimen from the Immortan’s army.

“Kick him in the face. Assert your authority.”

“No, Scab.” Instead Jeet reached down and hauled the creature up by his harness. “You know commands right?”

“Yes. Yesyes. Imp.. Imperator.” The feral nodded eagerly as he spat out the words, standing in an awkward, bowlegged stance and waiting for orders. It had been a long time since he’d last been able to speak, and his tongue wasn’t working the way he expected.

Beside him Scab grunted in surprise, having not thought the feral would be capable of speech. None of the few he’d ever dealt with could talk. That explained the bit, a feral that could talk was a feral that could question orders.

“Alright. Go stay by the door and keep watch. I’ll figure out what to do with you later.”

“Watch.” He understood that part from observing War Boys patrolling. But 'door’ was a little confusing to someone who’d never been inside a building before. He spun around, looking in all directions until Jeet pointed to the small gap next to the drawbridge. He trotted over, squatting down where he could stare out across the ravine.

“See? He’s useful.” Scab looked up at Jeet hopefully, strangely attached to the idea of keeping the worthless feral.

“Bah. We’ll see. What else you got in there?”

—

A horrible screaming sound echoed through the lighthouse. Gibbering and screeching at a decibel rarely heard. People dropped what they were doing, one resident was so startled they nearly fell down the stairs.

“WHAT THE HELL IS THAT RACKET?” Jeet tore down to the first level, holding his head as he yanked the feral away from where he was screaming at the door.

Choking down another horrible chittering noise, the feral tried to find his words, so unused to speaking. “Car. Car!” He turned back to the gap between the door and the wall, trying to scrabble through it and go on the attack.

“Alright you spotted it, now shut up.” He nudged him away from the opening, looking through it himself. “Buzzards.”

Obediently moving aside, the feral kept up his watch, staring intently at the wall instead.

“Defensive positions everyone!” Jeet belted out orders, waving people up onto the catwalks to make sure that the Buzzards knew they weren’t to be trifled with. Seeing the feral now fully engaged with a cinderblock wall, Jeet called over to Scab, “Come get this soup for brains war boy thing.”

“Soup!” Said the feral energetically.

Scab slithered over, patting the feral on the side, “Good job. Now we fight the Buzzards if they’re dumb enough to attack.”

Nodding, he rubbed the spikes on his stomach, ready and eager for a fight.

Having been crowded out from his powdercooking table on the second floor, Blas came up behind them, looking outside. “They’re gonna drive away. Just wanna show off.” He huffed, annoyed that his work was being interrupted.

“Bullet?” The feral was busily trying out all his new words, and recognizing the Bullet Boy for what he was, he tried his best to start a conversation.

Blas knelt down to inspect the feral. “Name’s Blas Cap.”

He tried to repeat that back to Blas, but his mouth didn’t cooperate, coming out a slurred mess before he reached into his mouth to claw at the wounds from the bit.

“Lemme see.” Blas pulled his hands away to peer into the feral’s mouth. “You’re missing a lot of teeth in here. This been cleaned?” He ran his thumb down the bloody welts on the feral’s face left by the straps of the head cage.

Wincing, the feral backed away, crouching down and burying his head in Scab’s side, trying to burrow under him with his butt stuck in the air. Scab shifted so he could wedge more of his body beneath him, “Haven’t had time. Imperator said he wasn’t sure if he was gonna keep him. Thinks he’s not gonna be useful.”

“We don’t do enough fighting to need a feral.” Blas watched impassively as the feral did his best to disappear beneath Scab’s stomach.

“He can do other things!”

“Like what?”

Scab didn’t reply, looking down at the ground, and then at the feral hiding beneath him.

“Well, you might wanna clean him up so none of this gets infected. He’s pretty mangled. Get some food in him too.”

Carefully extracting himself from being the feral’s hiding place, Scab looked him over. “When’s the last time you had any grub?”

“Food? Food’s for War Boys.” He shook himself, picking at the crusty blood on his cheek.

“Food’s for everyone here. I’ll get you a ration.” Blas stood up and stretched, eyeing the rest of the stronghold who were still on the upper stories watching the buzzards outside. He felt safe enough to ignore them, one Buzzard car wasn’t a threat, and the drawbridge was up so they wouldn’t be able to get into the stronghold anyway.

“Ration. Soup. Watch. Bullet.” The feral plopped down onto the ground looking at Scab. “Handler?”

“Scab.” Using the feral’s shoulder for support he pulled himself into a sitting position, bracing himself against the wall. “I’m Scab. That’s Blas Cap. The no good Wastelander that killed your brothers is Crankshaft. And now we need to call you something.”

The feral tilted his head, not understanding. Continuing to mutter the new words he’d heard.

Returning with a small can Blas handed it to Scab to open for him, “Do they get greenstuff? What do they feed ferals? This might make him sick if he eats too much of it.”

“We didn’t have ferals at Gastown. I think they feed them body parts of other ferals.”

“Go easy on these then, or you’ll be horking them up later.” Blas scooped out a green bean, putting it in the feral’s hand and watching as he snarfed it up, eyes going wide and holding out his palm for another. “Like that huh?”

“Greenstuff! Not have. Had. Not had.” He licked his fingers appreciatively. “War Boy food.”

“Your food now.” Blas handed him a few more, smiling as he lapped them up.

“Oh so now I’m feeding this thing am I?” Jeet stood behind them glaring. The Buzzards had predictably driven away after a lot of yelling and shouting and failed intimidation tactics. With the threat gone he could once again focus on the problem at hand: what to do with the creature.

“Can’t prove he’s useful if he’s too weak to do anything. Scab didn’t do so well the first week he was here either, bleedin’ out everywhere. Gotta give 'em a headstart.”

Scab recoiled from that, wanting to argue, to protest that he hadn’t needed any help. But for all his bravado he knew that Jeet had only kept him around because of Blas. Sure he’d proven his worth since then, even becoming the Imperator’s champion, but in the beginning he’d nearly passed out on a daily basis.

Initially bristling, Jeet took a few breaths and calmed himself down. Blas had a point, he usually did. He was the level-headed one of them, rarely emotional about much of anything. Controlling his temper, he snorted and then walked away, “Fine. He earned that being a lookout. Might as well get him a canteen too. Why the hell not? I’ll just keep collecting War Boys left and right. Open up a whole barracks for 'em. Sure. That’s great.”

“Hear that? You’re getting your own canteen.”

—

“I chained him up like you commanded, Imperator.” Scab’s voice was uncharacteristically subdued, and he shifted uncomfortably before continuing. “He wouldn’t attack anyone unless I told him to. And I wasn’t gonna.”

“I’m not taking no chances.” Jeet tried to ignore how strange Scab was acting. Looking over towards the upper window where the feral was chained, he scrunched up his face disbelievingly, “You made him a bed.”

Immediately defensive, Scab retorted, “You didn’t say I couldn’t!”

“Usin’ up my inventory for no purpose. I got plans for alla that!”

“We don’t have enough cars for all those tires. And when we need 'em you can take them back.”

“That ain’t the point!”

Scab started to shout something back, then choked it down, trying to remind himself that this was his Imperator and his word was law. His face shifted from angry to submissive and then back again over the course of several seconds. Eventually he settled on leaving, crawling back to where the feral was sitting at the end of his tether waiting.

A couple of tires covered with a threadbare tarp and held together with chains were set up against the wall under the window. It wasn’t much of a 'bed’ but it was more than the feral had ever had before. He was tied to a pipe running down the length of the wall with a chain padlocked around his ankle. There was plenty of chain though, he could almost get downstairs with how much slack was present. All his spiked bits had been removed and were in a pile out of his reach, leaving him in threadbare pants and bandages around his arms and feet. He felt vulnerable and naked and now Scab was angrily slithering towards him. Crouching down low to the ground he backed up as he tried to avoid being in Scab’s path.

If Jeet didn’t want to share his resources with someone who could use them, that was fine. Scab didn’t care. Yanking one of the tires out from under the tarp he chucked it off the catwalk, letting it crash to the ground below, knocking over some metal pylons and causing a huge ruckus. He was busily trying to pull another tire out as Jeet stormed over, Blas poking his head out of his room behind him in confusion.

“Cut it out!”

“You said you wanted them back. I’m giving them back. You can inventory them,” spit out with more vitriol than was normal even for Scab.

The feral was making a high pitched chittering noise, clearly agitated and afraid as he cringed against the wall far from them. Jeet turned and yelled at him to shut up, but that only made him more frightened and he added some snarling and whining into the mix.

“You’re scaring him.”

“What happened to War Boys not feeling fear?” Jeet sneered. His head was throbbing intensely from the argument and all the noise and he winced, pushing his fingers against the blades in his forehead.

“He’s not a War Boy!”

“Whatever he is, he doesn’t need all this.” He gestured to encompass the small bed.

“It’s four tires and a tarp I found in a corner.” Scab shifted onto his side so he could actually see more of Jeet than just his shoes. “Three tires now.”

Blas was awkwardly hovering a few feet away, expecting to have to step in between the two of them. “Normally they’re in cages. Soup can have something nicer while you decide what to do with him.”

“Soup?”

Upon hearing his name, the feral trotted over to Blas, crouching behind his legs so that Jeet couldn’t get at him.

“That’s what you called him. He seems to like it.” Blas wasn’t going to go out of his way to defend keeping the feral, personally he didn’t care. But Jeet was being a little out of line in demanding back four tires from his pile of well over a dozen unused ones.

“I didn’t call him nothing.”

“Too late now, he responds to it already.”

Jeet groaned, “Fine. Whatever. Soup it is.”

Soup scampered over, sitting obediently at Jeet’s feet, chain dragging behind him.

“The hell do you want mutt?”

Scab sullenly fixed the tarp over the remaining tires, tucking it underneath so it wouldn’t hang into the walkway. “He’s waiting for orders.”

“Git back on yer bed then. If you’re gonna take all my stuff, better use it.” He gestured to the tarp and tire conglomeration.

It was a confusing order to someone who only knew a few words and had spoken more in the past few hours than in his entire life. Scab had tried to explain that the bed was where he lived now, instead of in a cage, but Soup hadn’t really understood. As he inched closer to the bed he kept glancing over his shoulder at Jeet for approval, unsure if he was doing what was expected of him.

“Go on then. Git.”

“Give him some time, he’s never been outside his cage this long. He doesn’t know what to do.” Scab patted the tarp encouragingly while trying to not look at Jeet.

“What is wrong with ya’ll that you’re putting people in cages for so long they don’t know how to talk, or understand speakin’ or even stand up all the way?”

“Not my fault! Gastown didn’t have ferals.” Which wasn’t answering the question at all and Scab knew it.

“The Bullet Farm doesn’t have ferals neither. That’s a War Boy thing.”

Soup cringed, the tarp crinkling as he tried to make himself as small as possible.

Jeet eyed him, a very small sliver of him feeling bad for someone who was obviously horrifically maltreated. Soup could barely uncurl himself enough to lay down flat on the bed, and his muscles were oddly distorted and damaged from spending so much time crunched up in a cage. “Well what do you want me to do with him?”

“He’s a good lookout. He could sit up on that post outside and warn when anyone gets close. He already knows how to do that.”

Silence as Jeet considered. Killing the feral and eating him would be the easiest solution, but he was loathe to get rid of any resource. Maybe the feral could be put to good use. Though that needed to be weighed against him being another mouth to feed.

“We’ll put him up on that outcropping tomorrow. But he causes any trouble and he’s maggot feed, understand?” Jeet narrowed his eyes at Scab, hoping the threat was sinking in. “And if we’re gonna keep him you gotta clean him. Can smell him from here. Gettin’ his filth all over my tires and supplies.”

Scab nodded solemnly, but he was holding back a grin, knowing he’d won. If he could convince Jeet to keep him for a day, then he’d keep him forever. The Warlord never got rid of anything once it was in his possession.

“Me an’ Scab will give him a bath tomorrow. Take the harness off him too before it does more damage. He’s been bleeding.” Satisfied that Jeet and Scab weren’t going to start fighting again, Blas headed back to his room. He was tired, and it was well past his bedtime.

With a snort Jeet stomped away, not wanting to think about this anymore. Scab seemed to know about these feral things, and if he could make the thing useful and productive, then he’d be fine keeping him. Stupid name notwithstanding.

Soup curled into a ball on top of the tarp, sinking a bit into the tires. He watched Scab constantly, waiting for orders or confirmation that he was doing what was expected of him.

“Alright. You stay here and get some sleep.” Scab patted his leg and headed after Blas. He turned as he realized Soup was directly next to him, crawling along beside him on all fours, “No, stay there. That’s yours.”

“No cage?”

“No cage.

Soup hesitated, crouching down and looking between Scab and the makeshift bed. "Where…” He swallowed, trying hard to express what he wanted. He never got a chance to ever question or have thoughts of his own, and even the concept was overwhelming. “Where you going?”

“Blas’ storeroom. My duty as Champion is to protect the powder cook.” He shifted onto his side to pat Soup reassuringly. “You sleep out here. It’s safe. Imperator keeps this place well guarded, there’s a patrol outside and we got the bridge up.”

There was more that Soup wanted to ask, but he didn’t have the cognitive capacity to convey it or even figure out what he was feeling. He stood up somewhat, walking back to his new bed instead of his standard crawling. Sitting down he curled up into a ball, shaking his foot a few times to get the chain untangled.

“Good. I’ll be back out in the morning. Stay there. Don’t attack. Keep quiet. Understand?”

“Yes. Master.”

“Scab.”

“Yes, Scab.”

“Good.”

—

Soup had never been alone before. Or out of the cage for more than a few minutes at a time. For that matter he’d never had a name either. It was a whole day of firsts and he was utterly exhausted. So tired, but he couldn’t sleep, every sound of the lighthouse causing him to wake up in a panic. Occasionally residents would walk past him as they did their patrols or traded out for watches and he’d startle awake in case they were a threat.

One of them was Crankshaft who handed him a small piece of jerky. “Ain’t you supposed to be asleep?”

“Yes. Scab commanded.” Soup stretched, every bone in his body creaking in protest. He gnawed on the jerky, his few remaining teeth being put to the test.

“Oh you can talk now?”

Soup flattened himself against his bed, looking suddenly afraid. “Am not supposed to?”

“You’re allowed to talk. I didn’t know you could with all the noises you make.”

“Not allowed before. Why had..” He gestured to his face mimicking where the bit and the head cage had been.

“Gotcha. War Boys treat you like dirt huh? They’re assholes.” He leaned against the tires, smoothing out the tarp. “Scab made you a nice bed though.”

“Is very not like cage.”

“That why you’re not sleeping?”

Soup nodded glad Crankshaft had understood him. Words were hard.

“It’ll be fine. Jeet’s a good leader and keeps the place stocked all nice. And he don’t keep people in cages. So yer getting an upgrade.”

“Imperator?”

“Yeah, whatever you War Boys call him.”

“Not War Boy.”

“No one here knows the difference. You’re all War Boys to us.”

Shaking his head, Soup settled down, resting his head on his arm. It was a lot to process for the feral, and he yawned, curling up again.

“Get some sleep. Jeet’ll be up bright and early and yelling at you soon enough.”

—

“No! No no no no!” Soup squirmed, struggling and trying to get away from Scab and Blas who were holding him down.

“Stop it! You wanna wear this thing forever?” Blas sat on his back, preventing him from going anywhere. A strategy that had always worked great on Scab.

Scab kept tugging on the harness, pulling it off bit by bit. In his other hand he held a sharp knife, cutting away bits of Soup’s skin that had grown over the straps completely.

“Not maggot food!” Soup tried to get out from beneath Blas, flailing and starting to screech.

“Quiet! You want the Imperator out here to punish you?” Scab elbowed him in the back of the head to get him to shut up. “You’re not maggot food, we’re gonna give you a bath.”

The yelling only intensified, getting shriller and more abrasive as Scab finally got the full harness off, tossing it to the side. Soup was bleeding in several places, and had clear scars and abrasions indicating where the leather straps had rubbed his skin off down to the muscle.

“See? You’re fine, stop whining.”

Scab had barely glanced away to put the knife back on his belt when Soup made a break for it. Writhing out from beneath Blas he got to his feet, running off into the sand.

Blas sighed, aiming a squinty eyed glare at Scab, “I guess this is my problem now isn’t it?”

“If I could chase him myself I would!” Scab shifted around into a sitting position, supporting himself with his elbows as Blas reluctantly went after him.

Soup was much faster and used to physical exertion than Blas who’s main source of exercise was walking up the stairs once or twice daily. He’d only gotten a short distance from the lighthouse before the scrawny Bullet Boy was panting and wheezing, having to stop every few yards to catch his breath.

Back near the drawbridge Scab fretted, watching as Soup shrank into the distance. If Blas got too far away he was going to have to tell Jeet so he could go get him, and then Scab would be in for it. Letting Blas do anything even remotely dangerous was guaranteed to infuriate Jeet who did not take kindly to his prize resource being put in a position where he could be injured or killed.

Fortunately Soup realized he was being chased and stopped to assess the situation before choosing a direction to run. He hesitated, watching as Blas, who had barely gained on him at all, hunched over with his hand on his knee, gasping for air. Instead of darting away, he skittered a bit closer to Blas, concerned that he might pass out. He could see Scab still at the lighthouse, a trail in the sand indicating that he’d crawled a fair distance after them.

Even for a feral Soup wasn’t very bright. He didn’t understand most of what had been said to him the last few days, he had absolutely no idea why Scab never stood up, and he didn’t know what a 'bath’ was supposed to be. But he was smart enough to realize that Scab and Blas hadn’t hurt him since he’d been there. They’d fed him and made him a bed and that was more than any of his past handlers had done.

Coming up to Blas, he tilted his head, still on the verge of running, but waiting to see what happened.

“You.. you gotta…” Blas nearly collapsed, reaching out to support himself on Soup’s shoulder. “Gotta come back. We’re not gonna corpse ya.”

Soup looked all around them, seeing the vast openness of the landscape, no places to hide, the desolation that spoke volumes about the lack of resources around. Jeet’s Lighthouse dominated the horizon, and inside of it was shelter, safety and sustenance. Grunting in agreement, he turned to assist Blas back towards the drawbridge.

“Aces.” Blas was still struggling to breathe normally, starting to cough as well as wheeze. “Let’s go on back before Scab gets himself stuck in the sand.”

Scab was waiting right on the cusp of where the rocky outcropping the lighthouse perched on gave way to deeper sand. He’d never gone out beyond that and he wasn’t sure how far he’d sink. There was zero hesitation when it came to charging into battle, but he still had a healthy fear of dying soft, and suffocating in sand definitely counted as a less than chrome way to go.

“What’d you go and do that for?” Scab glared as best he could at Soup who wasn’t looking at him at all.

“Hey!” Blas kicked sand at Scab’s face, “Don’t yell and make him run off. Because I’m sure not chasing him again.”

Soup let out a soft squeaking noise, acting like a man condemned to death as Blas marched him back across the drawbridge and around a ledge to the large outcropping where they kept their wash water. Scab put himself in a position where Soup would have to pass him in order to run away again so he could grab him if he fled.

A large metal basin was filled with water that smelled just a little stagnant. Scab had made enough dew collectors for the stronghold that they now had a surplus of water. This bucket served as their laundry water and was changed out every few weeks. It wasn’t quite to the point where it needed to be dumped yet, but it surely would be after the filth that was Soup.

“It’s not too cold.” Blas smiled reassuringly as he helped Soup out of the fabric bandages wrapped around his arms and legs. But when he went for his pants Soup shied away, pressing up against the wall and making distressed noises.

Scab scoffed, “C'mon you, why you being such a handful?”

But Blas froze, recognizing Soup’s mannerisms. He’d acted exactly the same way with Jeet and seeing it was bringing back bad memories. “It’s fine. He can keep 'em on if he wants.”

“He’s gonna get all soggy.”

“I said it’s fine!” Blas snapped, so unlike his normally placid demeanor. Taking a deep breath he looked down into the basin of water, centering himself.

Scab didn’t press it, blinking in surprise at Blas’ reaction.

Shaking himself back to normal, Blas patted the surface of the water. “Come here, let’s clean you up.”

Soup stared, “In water?”

“Yup, we’ll scrub all the grime off ya.” Scab pushed him closer to the basin, pulling himself up onto a nearby stool and tangling around it to get in a sitting position leaned against the rim of the tub.

Though it felt so wrong to ruin water by climbing into it, Soup did as he was told, splashing around and getting all of them soaked. He’d never seen so much water in his life let alone had any of it touch his body.

Both Blas and Scab grabbed old rags, scrubbing at Soup’s skin. A layer of oily filth spread across the waterline as a lifetime of grit, sweat and gunk was scraped off him. Soup scooped up handfulls of water and let them cascade over his head, running his hands over his skin and grinning. That was a good feeling.

At least someone was having fun.

“Told ya we weren’t gonna corpse you.” Scab pulled the knife out again, carefully scraping it along Soup’s scalp. “Get you looking fit as a War Boy so the Imperator can see your worth. You can be our lookout, like a War Crier. But less drumming.”

He held still as Scab tended to his shaved head. “Get spikes back?”

“You won’t need 'em as a lookout. But if the Imperator takes you out fighting you can suit back up.”

“Mine!”

“No one’s gonna take your spikes.” Blas reassured him, understanding what it meant to have a personal possession and refusing to let it go.

Soup happily splish splashed around, sinking below the water and then bursting forth to drench Scab and Blas. He’d never smiled so much in his life, but that was doing a number on the wounds around his face from the bit and harness. The murky water started to twinge red with blood from all his injuries and that seemed like a good time to pull him out of there. It couldn’t be good to get that disgusting water into open cuts.

“Wanna be useful? Help me carry Scab to the drawbridge.”

“Wait, what? Why are you carrying me?”

Soup grunted and stood up, awkwardly stepping out of the tub now that his soaking wet pants weighed three times as much as normal. He put his arms under Scab’s shoulders hefting him a few inches off the ground as Blas grabbed him around the waist.

“Because you’re wet and crawling through the sand is gonna get you disgusting.”

Neither of them were really strong enough to be carting Scab around like that, but the drawbridge was only a short distance away and they managed to get him there without anyone collapsing. He rolled around on the metal grate of the bridge, getting his legs sorted out before relaxing back with his arms behind his head.

Next to him Soup watched intently before mimicking his behavior, laying down in nearly exactly the same way. He kept glancing over to check and make sure he was replicating his position precisely.

Blas smiled softly, sitting down next to them and soaking up the sun. He had a large canteen nearby that he was going to use to wash out Soup’s wounds, but it could wait. Right now he wanted to dry out and roast a bit. He loved the heat radiating off the sand, but he very rarely went outside; too consumed with work and Jeet frowned on him leaving. He didn’t want to chance some sniper taking out his powder cook.

From above them, Jeet looked down from the top of the Lighthouse at his three prisoners relaxing in the sun. He was still unsure what he was going to do with Soup, though now that they’d wasted a whole basin of water on the feral he might as well cut his losses and keep him. They didn’t really need a lookout, they’d hear any car approaching with more than enough time to raise the drawbridge.

The only ferals he’d ever seen had been at a great distance through binoculars, and they’d ran around in circles not doing much. Scab said he was a fighter, and he had the spikey outfit to prove it, but if they were encountering enemies in the lighthouse for him to attack then they had bigger problems to deal with.

Shuddering he tried to shake off the memory of Gutgash’s attack, instead focusing on the sleeping bodies below. Soup had curled into a ball between the two of them, his deformed muscles didn’t seem to be able to let him stretch out for very long. Next to him Scab was passed out and Blas was using Soup’s side as a backrest.

Well they were comfortable anyway. Jeet sometimes wished he could be as relaxed as the people in his lighthouse.

Of course then nothing would get done and the whole place would be a shambles. He snorted, snapping out of his reverie and stomping back to his patrol yelling out orders the whole way.

—

“What’d ya find mutt?”

Soup scampered up to Jeet, presenting him with half a hubcap, a knife, and a length of chain.

“Not bad.” He pocketed the knife, then took the chain and coiled it up around his shoulder. He handed the hubcap back to Soup, “We don’t need this, unless you want it for your bed.”

Blinking, Soup looked at the plastic thing in his hands, then back at Jeet. He didn’t understand the concept of 'want’. “Mine?”

“If you want it. Otherwise ditch it.” Jeet looked away quickly, realizing that he’d just told Soup he could keep something totally useless if he wanted it. He hoarded lots of things in the Lighthouse, but worthless chunks of shiny plastic weren’t one of them.

Soup had never had his own possessions before. All he had were his spikes, his pants and the harness and all of those things would just go to the next feral when he was dead or too spent to fight anymore. He grinned, trying to shove the broken saucer into his pants.

“That ain’t gonna fit in yer pocket. Give it here.” Jeet held out his hand, waiting as Soup reluctantly turned over his treasure. “I’ll give it back, I don’t want this useless junk.”

Jeet couldn’t tell if Soup understood any of that. He still didn’t have a firm grasp on how much the feral knew and there were days that he was unsure how Soup hadn’t managed to kill himself yet. Especially when they had to stop him from eating screws or trying to walk off cliffs. He watched Soup dart away again to go scavenge as he absently picked through the burnt out wreckage of a buzzard car.

He’d needed some time away from the stronghold, clear his head and breathe some good air. So he’d taken Soup out in the buggy to go investigate what remained of an old wreck. There was almost nothing of value left, lots of other scavengers had picked over it already, but they’d found some scrap at least. He’d wanted to go alone, but Scab had insisted that Soup would be useful and could protect him should anything happen, and in a moment of weakness Jeet had agreed.

It wasn’t so bad, Soup was enjoying running around and digging through the sand to bring him his finds. And even Jeet had to admit that when Soup was all suited up in his spikes he looked pretty intimidating. Though he doubted anyone would try and attack them to lay claim to these useless bits of scrap and rocks.

Soup eagerly returned with a metal cylinder in his hands, offering it up to his Imperator.

“Hey now!” Jeet took it, fingers finding the switch and flicking it on. A weak light, barely visible in the sun, emitted from the cracked glass and Jeet aimed it at Soup. “Good find.”

Soup recoiled then tried to get closer, squinting directly into the bulb. “Makes sun?”

“Called a flashlight.” He turned it off. “Real useful for seein’ all them cracks and corners where resources might be hiding. Nicely done.” Impulsively Jeet reached out and stroked Soup’s head.

Freezing, Soup cringed a little, not used to being touched in any way that wasn’t violent. He eyed Jeet nervously, hearing the praise in his voice, but expecting punishment anyway.

“I’m not gonna hurt you. You did something good.” Jeet dropped his hand, not wanting to scare him further. He especially didn’t want to alarm him enough to make him defensively strike out with one of his sharp accessories.

“No punish?”

“For finding something worth plenty? Why would I punish you?”

Soup didn’t know why; he’d never thought about it, it was just something that happened occasionally. Very cautiously he inched closer, pressing his forehead against Jeet’s shoulder.

“Aight, you’re getting your pointy bits all up in my business.” Jeet shifted around so that Soup’s chestpiece wasn’t stabbing him. Stroking his head again he softened his voice, “See? Not so bad.”

“Did good?”

“Yep.”

A contented rumbly squeaking noise was being emitted from Soup as Jeet petted him. He didn’t want a third War Boy in the Lighthouse, he didn’t need a third War Boy. And yet here he was.

“Okay that’s enough. Git in the car so we can take this stuff back.”

Soup obediently returned to the vehicle, crawling in through the window instead of using the door. There was still some training to be done with him on how to do normal human things instead of being a feral in a cage.

“Here, hold all this.” Jeet shoved the things he was carrying at Soup, following him into the car and starting the engine. “There ya go, being very useful.”

Maybe having a third obedient follower wasn’t so bad.

Then again, “No Soup. Don’t eat it! Spit it out!”


End file.
